


Ways to Lose and Win

by lisslynae



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Good!Lucius, Hermione has a Sister, Not Epilogue Compliant, also a first attempt at smut, also everyone moved to the US?, also it's not really smut, at all, because it works for me, but I did try!!, gratuitous references to greek and norse mythology, idek, kind of-ish, let's be honest they do, not-so-good!hermione?, or - Freeform, ron can just not exist, they all have PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2018-04-25 13:02:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4961614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lisslynae/pseuds/lisslynae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A different ending--<br/>Lost souls gravitate to one another. Similar scars are strange places to find healing, but Hermione Granger put away her name and determined to seek redemption long ago. Lucius Malfoy presumed no such kindness would ever be extended to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ways to Lose and Win

She would never understand why death was heralded by sirens. Harbingers of death, in her experience had been muttered spells, and the awful disintegrating hiss of one striking, and once, every so often, a wail. Nothing like a siren, but a shriek yanked straight from the heart through the throat, and out into the air where it gained in momentum and swirled in the sky before falling harshly to the dirt. 

The way she washed her hands was a careful ritual, not comforting at all, but grounding. The snap of plastic gloves on skin, and the screech of shoes and wheels on slick-shined tile, and another stretcher was brought in. The paramedics talked quickly, and she looked, and this one would not die, not tonight, but be saved for another battle. Her hands are careful and quick, mopping up blood, holding together tissue and skin, and stitching it back together with tiny careful knots. It is a blessing that this one was easier. It has been two months since she had poured all her magic through her hands, and left tongues chattering over “miracles.” She cannot afford to do it as often as she would like without getting caught, but she had called the little red-haired girl Fred, and redemption had hastened her hands, and her frenzy had been perfectly controlled, and the little girl had thanked her with dainty grace when she had been released from the hospital. She strips the gloves off gently, and the blood-covered jacket, and this time, when she puts her hands under the water, it is sacred and holy. 

The last patient that had died under her hands had been old and frail, and his long white hair and beard had sent a thrill of terror through her heart. In the end, she could do nothing. Death was inevitable, and she had come away with a grim furrow between her eyes, because that was how it had always been, and no one had seen it, but him as he withered, and her as she slipped into dark corners, determined to know and protect. There had never been the question of her saving him, but so many others had fallen, and there she could do nothing but mourn.

The coffee in the employee’s lounge was always awful, but she sipped her fourth cup over a truly unappetizing sandwich. She flipped through a magazine, hands skimming over glossy pages, and where the light caught the page onto her hands she could see blood dripping from her fingertips. She closed it slowly and slid it into the middle of the table, glancing at unmarred whiteness of her hands. The coffee is so hot and black it burns down her throat and swirls violently in her stomach.

She almost gets caught this time, over a man with white-blond hair. His face is twisted beyond recognition, but his hair stretches past his shoulders, and maybe this will redeem them both. She pours her magic into every stab and slit, made by a plain knife. His face will scar, unless more magic than she can risk is used on it, but he will live. His blood glistens against her gloves the same color as her own, and no better; and when she searches through his clothes there is no wand. Her typical policy of checking in on her patients once they are conscious almost escapes, but she has never been a coward. She introduces herself graciously, while his face is still so bandaged he can’t see, and her voice must be familiar, even if she had not taken their names, introducing herself with a steady voice as Dr. Bella Crouch. He starts slightly, and she finds the name on his chart as Lucas Riddle. She shifts the bandages on his torso, checking for infection. He reaches out and seizes her wrist, and her breath catches as his fingers find the letters scarred along her arm. He jerks his hand away with a low moan, and twists slightly away. She catches him gently by the shoulder, and rubs gently, and she sits there until his breathing evens out, and he sleeps. 

It is almost a week before she returns, and the bandages on his face are gone, revealing twisted pink lines, stretching across his cheeks and marring his nose, and bending the corner of his mouth. His hair had been cropped, and does not even reach his shoulders with its jagged edges. His eyes may be the only thing unchanged, but as she looks more carefully, she finds a sorrow in his eyes that she had never seen before. He barely meets her eye as she glances up from her clipboard to him.

“It’s fine.” she reassures him. “It looks as though you will be able to leave by the end of this week.”

She has done a bit of research, and he owns a reasonably successful bookstore in town, and has lived there for nearly as long as she has. The news still is reporting on the way a successful businessman had been mugged and attacked. The rumor was that he had been carrying a great deal of money. The man arrested for the attack killed himself in jail, and she recognized Crabbe Senior in the picture.

She finally sighs, and sits on the edge of the bed, running her finger up and down the edge of her lab jacket. “It’s redemption.” she explains as best she can. “For everyone I could not save.”

His brow furrows. “It could have been better served if you had let me die, I should think.”

She thins her lip into a line. “I’m a doctor. I don’t let people die.”

His pale eyes flatten on hers. “You are not a Healer.” he insists. “You did a great deal more then you had to.”

She busies her hands smoothing the bed and pillows, and carefully tucking the sheet in at the edges. “Anyone I can save.” she murmurs, “It forgives a little bit more.”

His smile is more than a bit bitter. “It cannot be redeemed, and no one can erase it. We are all doomed in our own way, some worse than others.”

Her eyes flutter closed, and a tear makes its way down the side of her face. “I know.” she whispers.

He pushes himself up, and catches the tear on his finger. He means to console her, but her single tear was all she had, and suddenly their positions are reversed and his head is slumped on her shoulder. He had thought that he had left the worst behind, Narcissa dead, Draco so angry with him that they still did not speak. He shudders with sobs, tears drenching her, and just as he realizes that there is no reason she would care to comfort him, he can feel her hand in his hair, stroking gently.

“Shh, shh.” she whispers, cradling him against her gently. Her heart trembles at his ear, and she breathes as if she would say more, but she sits quiet, holding him, and smoothing his hair. She rests her cheek against his head, and she must hold him until he sleeps, because she is gone and the room is almost dark when he wakes.

She is there again the next day, and the next, and when he is released from the hospital, he somehow ends up on her couch with a mug of tea, a hand-knitted afghan, pain medication, and a movie playing. The move from the hospital to the car to the house was more painful than he had expected, and she gives him chamomile tea with honey, and enough drugs that when he wakes up the movie is over, the television is off, and his head is in her lap. She is completely engrossed in a book, and she is running her free hand through his hair so that it is fanned out over her legs. It is too easy to pretend that it is normal perfection, and he leaves his eyes closed even when her fingers begin to trace his face, and talk.

“I’m sorry.” she whispers, not knowing more than the air catches her words. “I’m sorry that we’re both this lost.” Her laugh is low, and sincere. “When we met, the world was so clear-cut. I knew who to love, and who to hate, but it isn’t that easy anymore, is it? I didn’t know pain or mourning yet, either.” Her voice drops, husky with tears he knows will never drop. “The war ended, but we both lost didn’t we?” Her thumb shadows over one of the healing cuts on his face. “Ah, if only souls healed this easily.” she sighs. Her hand drops to the side of his face, tucking him to her, and she lowers a gentle kiss to his forehead. She sits so still that he wonders absently if she has gone to sleep, then she begins to stir, and replaces her legs with a pillow, and smooths the blanket down. She stands motionless next to the couch for a few seconds before moving off and turning off the lights, leaving one lamp on. He decides he will wait a bit before he moves to the spare bedroom she showed him, but drifts back off before he manages to move.

He never actually leaves. She has breakfast on the table and tea in the kettle when he wakes in the morning. She refuses to let him leave before she deems him fully healed. He is not eager to return to his empty apartment, and they find an odd, tentative solace in each other’s company.

The balance changes little by little in the hours of the evening, when they sit curled on opposite ends of the couch, in their own tasks. She is sighing over a poem, almost crying, and he plucks the book from her hand, and reads it aloud, soothing and melting her. They begin to sit closer, legs brushing, and reading over one another’s shoulders in shy silence. In the dawn, she wakes first and watches. His hair is spread over the pillow and the sun catches the almost-white strands and casts a halo, and makes him look like a oh-so-fallen angel. One morning she wakes him with her hands and lips tracing his face. When he wakes suddenly there is apprehension and vulnerability in his eyes, and he cannot place his hands, because through her thin nightgown he feels the pockmarked hex scar on her hip, and the letters trailing along her arm, and the long scarred swath along her back. She lifts her lips from the corner of his mouth, and purposefully travels down his bare torso, kissing her way down arching scars and letting her eyelashes flicker over his skin. His hands almost settle until she takes one, laying kisses on his fingers, his palm, and down the inside of his wrist. She pauses for a blink, for either emphasis or hesitation, and her breath wafts over his Dark Mark for an instant before she lays her lips on it it unfalteringly. The only sound in their golden world is his sharp gasp as he surges upward and pulls her tight to him. She molds to him, fitting against him like silk on skin. She is short, curves and weary kindness, dark curls; and he is tall and slim, hard muscles and long planes, silver-white hair, and wearing guilt and sorrow like a cloak. They move in breathless concert until they lie silent, as the sun turns yellow-white and warms their bare skin. The sun is high enough to flash in the mirror over her vanity. It paints prisms around the room, and she traces one on his hip, laughing softly when he trembles under her teasing touches. He is too spent to do anything but writhe under her hands and tongue as she carefully and calmly pulls him apart and smooths him back together. She slides back down onto the bed, her pink lips turning up only slightly at the corners, but her eyes ocean-deep with the knowledge and passion that had made her an amazing opponent, and an even better friend. She smiles more openly as he stares at her, and he notices the strength and dignity in her face that took her from a child to adult despite the efforts of so many. 

“We win.” she announces, her voice low and husky. Her eyes brighten with tears. “We win.” she repeats. She pushes closer to him, until their hips brush and their legs tangle.

He winds careful fingers through her hair. “We fought for this, and won.” he agrees.

She looks brilliant when she goes to the hospital for her evening shift. She traces a familiar face over every patient she touches, and her hands move more surely than ever. 

“He’ll be fine.” she tells worried parents. Fred’s parents, she has decided, even though the teenage boy lying in a hospital bed has short brown hair and an achingly serious face. 

She visits a patient she had seen come in on her last shift. The girl has stick-straight blond hair that veils her face as she looks sadly at her arm. When she looks up, though, all Bella sees her younger self in the aching eyes. She pulls off her white lab jacket and rolls up her sleeve. 

“Here.” she offers gently. The girl takes her arm in clumsy, trembling hands, careful not to brush the barely-healing burns slashing her forearm. She runs her fingers over Bella’s arm and the ugly word scarred deep into it.

“It was an ugly joke when I was in school.” she explains. “I was ashamed of this for a really long time, but I’m not now.”

The girl’s fingers still.

“I won.” Bella smiles. She twists her arm so the light catches the white scars. “They tried to make me afraid, to hurt me so much that I wouldn’t come back, wouldn’t fight anymore, but they didn’t win.”

The girl bites her lip, eyes not moving from the angry marks. 

Bella uses her free hand to pull the folder from the foot of the bed. “See this?” She underlines her name on the chart with a red fingernail. “Bella was the name of the person who did this to me. I took her name too, just so everyone would know she didn’t win.”

The girl leans back against her pillow, and lets Bella wrap her arm. When she finishes, she carefully smoothes out her sleeve and puts her jacket back on. Her smile is wildly joyous as she stands in the door and glances back.

The girl has always sort of hated her name. It is fine that her parents love Greek mythology, but she gets made fun of enough for her Australian accent, so to add a name like Hekate, and now scars crisscrossing her arm is unfair. 

She leaves the hospital with her dad. Her dad, with his funny British-Australian accent and wildly curly hair, who tucks his arm around her shoulder and steadies her. It is late afternoon, and the sun plays red, gold, and purple over the parked cars, and makes shadows twist and dance. The nice doctor, Dr. Crouch, stands waiting for someone. Her dark silhouette on the sidewalk does not quite match, like something from a fairy story. A man with silvery-white hair joins her, and they stand just properly apart. Their clinging shadows tell a little different story. 

He says something, turning and leaning toward her. The light flares around him, making him look like an angel. She tosses her head back and laughs at whatever he says, and she looks like a Valkyrie. 

She points the pair out to her father before he starts the car. His hand freezes on the key.

“She looks like she’s a Valkyrie.” Kate explains. “I bet she does get to choose who lives or dies.”

Her dad’s face is creased with blind confusion as they slowly avoid the rush of vehicles leaving the hospital.

“She was the nice doctor I told you of.” Words are drawn from her as her father’s eyes gleam in the light. “I think she chose that man.” Her dad slows the car, watching her face twist. “Plucked him from death, I think. Chose well.”

Her dad slips the car into park. “Stay here, honey.” He moves across the grass toward the couple. They turn toward him. His daughter is probably right, strangely right, as usual, he realizes suddenly. The man’s face is slashed with scars, one that winds down his neck, and likely more scattering over his heart. They both start at his appearance, and the lady brushes her hand across her mouth as she gasps in surprise.

Her accent is pleasantly British, lacking the hint of Australian that he knows his has picked up in the past decade or so.

“Can I help you with something?” she asks. Her face is strangely hopeful.

“I’m Wendell Wilkins. My daughter mentioned you helped her a great deal. With the scars. I wanted to thank you. She’s smart, but she doesn’t always do well making friends. Thinks she has to impress them, and always ends up part of some foolhardy scheme, as you may have noticed.”

The doctor’s face is a moue of amusement and sadness but the man behind her brushes a hand over her neck and whispers something in her ear that makes her smile. 

She extends her hand and he shakes it, noticing the scars sliced on her arm. “I’m Bella Crouch. I’m glad I could help. I was kind of like that as a kid.”

Wendell wonders blindly for a moment what kind of parents this girl must have. “Your parents must be very brave.” he jokes. “There are days where I definitely don’t know if Kate will manage to survive to adulthood with her brilliant plans.” 

The doctor makes a choking sound. “They were very brave. My parents, I mean. They did their best.” Her hand tightens convulsively in the man’s jacket sleeve. He runs a soothing hand over her shoulder.

“I apologize.” Wendell mutters. “I didn’t…”

“No.” the man assures him. “They were very brave.” His face twists in bitterness and sorrow, pulling the scars into a exaggerated mask. His eyes glimmer in a way that makes Wendell’s brows crease in an attempt at memory.

“I wouldn’t worry too much.” the doctor interjects. “There’s only so much trouble kids can get into, and she seems to have some common sense. Even the strangest things we do, we do out of love. Kids, I mean.” she finishes quickly, looking strangely frustrated with her words.

Wendell lays a hand quickly on her shoulder. “Thank you.” He turns to go, then turns back. “Katie said you were like a Valkyrie.” He laughs strangely. “As if you choose, and usher some people to the afterlife, and keep others here.” His eyes flicker aside, catching both of them. “She said you chose well. She’s usually right.” He turns again and leaves.

She buries her face in the man’s chest. “I chose.” she murmurs. “I chose every day, and I chose right.”

He tips her face up with a gentle tug on her curls. “I think so.” He whispers.

Her eyes light. “I did.” she exclaims, surging upward and capturing his lips.


End file.
